


After the End

by Liralen



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Angst, M/M, Schmoop, spn_cinema
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liralen/pseuds/Liralen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For spn_cinema, a J2 remake of 1991's Defending Your Life. They say true love never dies--but sometimes you may have to die to find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the End

The afterlife looks almost exactly like L.A. on a fairly smog-free day, which Jensen thinks just about fucking figures.

He always thought he'd be scared when the time came, but it turns out that he doesn't really have long enough to freak out. He was alive, and then, fast as the big rig that t-boned his Boxster, he was dead. Like a close play at the plate: bang-bang, you're out. Mostly, he feels resigned.

Resigned and kind of _pissed_. He just spent a small fortune redoing the brakes on that car and swapping out the sound system, dialing up the rims even though Danneel had laughed at him for it, alternately called the car a dick extension and an early midlife crisis.

Well, she was wrong about that, at least. As it turns out, it was an end-life crisis, and Jensen was only able to enjoy his newly pimped-out baby for a single day. And now he's dead.

Today _sucks_.

*  *  *

"You're not in Heaven."

It's the third thing that's been said to him since he died, and instantly the most reassuring.

Not that there's been much competition. The second thing was, "First door on your right, if you'll please. You're holding up the line," from an aggressively chipper young woman who looked like nothing so much as a harassed airline stewardess in her navy blazer with the name tag stuck to the lapel.

The first was a disembodied voice politely instructing him to please stop screaming, sir. That happened sometime before he found himself standing in the hall, apparently holding up a line, but Jensen still doesn't know when, doesn't understand the vague headache-inducing static of transition that took him from the tight crunch of the driver's seat to the sourceless voice to the long corridor lined with doors.

He's pretty sure it wasn't God. It sounded like an announcement over an airport P.A. system.

Jensen looks across the desk at the man who just spoke to him—the man in the room behind the first door to the right. He's a pleasant-looking guy, thick head of tousled brown hair and wide-set blue eyes, an easy, somewhat entertained smile quirking his pale mouth. He doesn't look much older than Jensen, maybe thirty-five, but there's something settled and poised in his direct gaze, the relaxed line of his shoulders, that calms the rising panic in Jensen's stomach.

"You're not in Heaven," the man repeats, the words pitched low and soothing. "You're not in Hell, either. Don't worry. This is only a way station. I know it's not what you were expecting. My name is Misha, and if you'll take a seat, I'll explain everything you want to know."

The man—Misha—reaches a hand toward him, and without thinking Jensen clasps it in a firm shake, introduces himself and lets go, sinking into the waiting chair. Misha reseats himself behind the desk and continues to watch Jensen steadily, without further comment.

Jensen shifts in his chair, scratches his wrist, and clears his throat.

"I'm dead," he says at last.

The moment it leaves his lips, Jensen feels his body relax.

Misha smiles encouragingly, nods, happy-proud like the parent of a particularly clever toddler. Jensen bristles a little at the patronization, but his annoyance is faint and far away. Being dead seems to have a Zen effect. Misha flips open a manila folder on his desk, moves aside a full-color head shot of Jensen, lifts a paper from the file and begins to read.

"Jensen Ross Ackles of Richardson, Texas died this morning at 8:32 a.m. Pacific Standard Time at the age of 30 years, 2 months and 12 days of severe internal injuries sustained from a vehicular coll—"

"Dude," Jensen protests, wincing. "Seriously?"

Misha glances up from the page, eyes large and serious. "Is any of that... incorrect? Our data entry people are rarely wrong, but mistakes _do_ occasionally happen—"

"No, no, it's—it's right. I just... do you have to _say_ it like that?" Jensen sighs, rubbing at his eyes and dragging his hand slowly over his face. "I'm sorry. This is just—it's a lot to take in."

"I understand. It's quite a shock, I'm sure. As I said, I'm here to explain everything to you."

Misha offers that pleasant, just slightly amused smile again, and Jensen can't help but feel that it's a _laughing at_ rather than _laughing with_ expression, but not in a mean way. If he had his wits about him and wasn't still trying to process the fact that he's dead and apparently not in Heaven _or_ Hell, he'd probably find the situation a little entertaining, too.

"So, you, uh. You said this was a... a way station?"

"In a manner of speaking. Most people find it useful to think of it that way. This is a step in the process, a place to stop and examine your life before it's determined whether you will go back or continue on."

Jensen scrunches his eyes shut, trying to take that in and feeling a little like his head's about to explode. "A step... in the process? What process? Go back _where_? Continue to what? To Heaven? Are you going to, like, weigh my soul and decide if I get into Heaven or not? I thought St. Peter did that. Do you work for him? Are you an angel?"

Jensen bites his tongue hard at that, forcibly stemming the tide of questions welling up in him. Misha cocks his head vaguely bird-like to one side, his eyes sparkling, and while there's still amusement, Jensen sees a great depth of compassion there as well.

"You're very curious. It isn't a bad thing—I like that. You may not believe it, but some people aren't. They just sit there and wait for me to tell them where to go. But you have questions. That's good."

"Thanks," Jensen replies awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "So—"

"Let's start with your first question," Misha interjects smoothly. "About the process. The reason you're here—the reason this whole place exists—is to examine the time you've spent most recently on Earth and determine whether you're ready to move on. What you've learned, how you've grown, and especially to what degree you've faced and conquered your fears.  That process is—"

"Wait a minute. The time I've spent _most recently_ on Earth? What does that mean?"

"Your most recent life. The time you spent in the body you just vacated— _this_ isn't actually your body, you know." Misha gestures loosely at Jensen's tensed form, curled awkwardly in the armchair. "Nothing here is exactly _physical_ in the strictest sense, but that's—well, it's all slightly complicated and not really my area of expertise."

"Right," Jensen says distractedly, pressing an absent hand to the worn cotton over his chest—and he's only just now noticed that he's wearing his favorite shirt, a 10-year-old flannel in yellows and reds that's missing the bottom two buttons—and feeling the faint muffled rhythm of his heart.

"So I've—I've had, uh, other bodies. Other… lives." He slants a look up at Misha's nod. Considers, reaches. "I've been here before."

Misha's smile this time is warmer, more genuine, and flushes Jensen with a quick aw-shucks flash of pride. "Yes, you have. Very good."

"Have we met before?"

"No. We have a lot of caseworkers; we try to distribute cases evenly so that no one gets the same soul twice. It's easier to be objective that way. It has happened a few times that a caseworker has defended the same soul twice, but it's very rare, and those were mostly in the early days, before we really got organized and streamlined. There's a rumor that a long time ago—way before my time—there was a prosecutor who felt so bad about winning a case to send a soul back that he switched sides, joined the defense and successfully defended the same soul its next time around, sending it on. But that's only a rumor—probably just romantic nonsense. Still, kind of sweet, isn't it?"

Misha winks and Jensen feels himself smiling, almost distracted.

"Yeah, I guess that's— _hey_." He runs over what Misha just said and his not-actually-physical heart stutters painfully at the words.

"Hmm?" Misha asks, attention back on Jensen's file as he flips idly through the pages.

"What was that about defenders and prosecutors, and sending souls back? You said this was just a step in a process. Is this… am I on _trial_ here?"

Misha shakes his head slowly in denial, but Jensen doesn't think it looks very sincere.

"No, no, it's nothing like that. Not really. It's just a form of evaluation to see if you're _ready_ , that's all. As your defender, I'll be by your side through the whole process, helping you understand what's going on and making sure your life is shown to your best advantage. The final decision will be made by the judges—there are two, and the decision to let a soul move on must be unanimous."

"Judges," Jensen says flatly. "Judges, and defenders, and prosecutors. That sounds like a trial to me."

He startles at a thought, eyes widening. "Am I guilty?"

"You shouldn't think of it in terms of 'guilty' and 'innocent'," Misha soothes. "No one's here to punish you for anything. It's just about whether or not you're _ready_. Whether it's _time_. As I said before, your most recent stint on earth wasn't your first. You've been through here a few times now, and the decision was made each time to send you back. You had fears and obstacles you still needed to deal with. That's okay—everyone gets there in their own time. Although this time—"

Misha taps the file in front of him, nodding thoughtfully.

"I've been through your entire file, of course, and at the risk of sounding over-confident, I have to say, I have a good feeling about this time."

"You do?" Jensen asks, but it's an afterthought, distracted, as he leans forward over the desk to get a better look at the thick folder Misha's examining. The photograph is fairly recent and strangely familiar; it takes Jensen a long moment of studying it upside-down to realize it's one of a series of headshots he had done last July, when his agent had talked him into making one last attempt to get out of soaps and onto the big screen. One last spectacularly failed attempt, Jensen thinks a little bitterly.

It's stupid, he knows, makes no difference now, but part of him would have really liked to have died a movie star.

Misha gives a polite cough, and Jensen jerks back, a guilty flush rising in his face as he meets the other man's eyes. He wonders if Misha can read his mind, hopes absurdly that he can't.

"How long will it take?" Jensen asks. "The tr—the _process_."

"All review processes take four days, from the soul's preliminary meeting with its defender—that's what we're doing right now—to the judges' final decision. We'll talk again tomorrow morning, just to go over any questions you think of between now and then, and then you'll meet your judges and prosecutor. The process will take about six hours each day, with a break in the middle for lunch. I won't lie to you: the process is intense, and you may feel a little drained afterward, especially at the end of the first day. By this time on the fourth day the judges will finish their deliberation and they'll be ready to hand down their decision."

"Four days," Jensen breathes, rubbing a hand absently over his face. "Wow. That's—that's fast. Is there anything I need to do on my own? To prepare? I don't even know what they're going to ask—"

"Don't worry about that now," Misha says, voice gentling. "I know it's a lot to take in at once. There's nothing you need to do except get a good night's sleep and be ready at eight tomorrow. I'll have someone take you to your hotel after this and pick you up tomorrow morning."

Misha glances at his watch. It's a simple, elegant construction of glass and steel with five hands and no visible markings, and Jensen wants to ask, but he's pretty sure his already sore brain would explode at the attempted explanation.

"It's getting close to evening. By the time you get to your hotel, most of the restaurants should be opening up for dinner. Why don't you take a stroll downtown, get something to eat, take in the sights? There's a lot to do and see around here. The design team does its best to bring the best elements of Earth to the city, and I think you'll find it relaxing."

Misha's already on his feet, tipping Jensen's file closed and reaching across the desk to shake his hand, by the time Jensen manages to wrap his mind and tongue around the question— "What hotel? What downtown? What _city?_ "

Misha stares at him blankly for a moment, his pleasant face suddenly an unreadable mask, and then a strange thing happens: Jensen can almost swear he sees Misha _blush_.

"Did I really forget to tell you? Maybe I'm creeping closer to retirement than I thought." He shakes his head, and the empty look is gone in a blink, replaced by the familiar half-affectionate, half-amused smile. "Welcome to Terminal City."

*  *  *

Jensen takes Misha's advice and goes out that night to explore the city, trying to put thoughts of tomorrow's trial out of his mind. It's a nice night, clear and just a little brisk. If this were really Los Angeles it would be late fall, maybe early winter, before the brief rainy season that sets off landslides in the hills each year and otherwise does little to quench SoCal's perpetual thirst.

It isn't L.A., though, and Jensen knows that if he were allowed to stay for four months, instead of just four days, he would never see a thunderstorm; never watch a hurricane carve a path of destruction, or see the lush vegetation shrivel up and burn away beneath a drought. He wonders if the permanent residents of the city miss watching the world turn.

There's a lot to do in Terminal City: the concierge at Jensen's hotel had offered him a dozen brochures, their slick covers featuring everything from dining, to snowboarding, to something called the "Past Lives Pavilion", but Jensen decided to forgo them and the row of cabs lined up at the curb and explore on his own.

It's not until he's wandering the brightly lit streets, poking his head into clubs and reading the menus posted outside restaurants, that Jensen realizes something that probably should have already been obvious. The temporary population of the city—the souls like Jensen who are waiting to be processed—is _really old_.

Most of the people Jensen passes on the street are at least his parents' age, some closer to his grandparents' age. There are some, like Jensen, who are in their 20's and 30's, even one or two teenagers, but they're the exception rather than the rule, and Jensen feels lonely and strange in a way he isn't used to after more than a decade in Hollywood, constantly surrounded by the young and beautiful.

Probably because of the age of the population, a lot of the entertainment in the city caters to an elderly clientele, and Jensen walks a long time before he stops at a place that looks promising. The large hand-painted wooden sign reads "The Lone Star" in blue and white letters. Small, neat stenciling beneath proclaims it to be the "ultimate in entertainment for the Texas sports fan" with "the best barbecue not on Earth."

Inside, the place is a mix of sports bar and family-style restaurant that shouldn't work, but Jensen finds himself charmed. Wide-screen TVs dominate the walls, spaced at comfortable intervals, each one showing a different game. They span all the major sports, and when Jensen takes a closer look he realizes that every one of them features a Texas matchup.

To his left, the 2005 Astros and the 2010 Rangers are just innings away from the World Series, while to his right a Cowboys team he can't put a year to is beating up on the Raiders. He notes with approval that the basketball games are scattered around the room to prevent intra-state rivalries from flaring. There's an entire wall and section of tables devoted to various Longhorns games, and just in front of where Jensen's standing, open-mouthed and a little overwhelmed, the Stars are on the power play against the Sabres in—

"Game Six of the '99 Finals!" Jensen breathes reverently.

"Every night at six sharp," a low, pleasant female voice agrees. Jensen glances down to meet the gaze of a smiling older woman behind the bar. "And the best part is, you won't hear a single shout of "No goal!" here." She winks, and Jensen feels himself grin. "What can I get for you, son?"

Jensen considers the question seriously. "You have Shiner on tap?" he asks, cautiously hopeful. The woman snorts and grabs a glass.

"Six different kinds," she tells Jensen's shocked face. "Bock, blonde, Hefe, Bohemian Black, Frost or Holiday Cheer?"

"Hefeweissen," Jensen replies automatically. Almost before his lips have finished forming the word the glass is in front of him, golden and fragrant, an orange wedge slowly sinking to the bottom. The first sip is like being thrown back in time; he's 16 again, cutting class with Chris to watch the Rangers from the cheap seats high in the bleachers, the smell of wet grass and suntan lotion thick in his nose. He lets out an involuntary sound of pleasure and the woman smiles.

"Good?" she asks, and Jensen can only nod. "Good. Now, son, what can I getcha to eat?"

"What's good here?" he asks, glancing over the extensive menu she pushes in front of him.

"Everything's good."

Jensen glances up with a raised brow, but the woman's face is perfectly serious.

"Okay," he says slowly, licking foam from his lips. "Well—what would you recommend, then?"

She cocks her head at him. "What was your favorite thing your momma made when you were a kid?" she asks.

Instantly half a dozen meals spring to mind, each attached to warm, happy memories of growing up, summer smells and backyard cook-outs, but for the #1 spot there's no contest. "It was—"

"Pork chops with applesauce, mashed potatoes and a pan of jalapeño cornbread," a voice says. Jensen glances up, surprised, and the voice's owner meets his gaze with a dimpled grin. "Lord, the things that woman could do with a piece of pork."

It feels like Jensen's heart rolls over about three times in his chest. The guy looming over him—and Jensen's not a small man, but this guy definitely has the height to _loom_ —is absolutely gorgeous. For just a moment, he wonders if Misha was lying, and he really is in Heaven.

The guy's a little younger than Jensen, mid- to late-twenties; broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, built like a goddamn comic book hero come to life, all sinewy muscle and warm sun-tanned skin. He wears his dark brown hair long enough to tuck behind his ears, tangles of it falling over almond-shaped eyes that are a kaleidoscope of green, brown and blue. His mouth is soft and pink and still smiling, even though Jensen's been gazing wordlessly at him for what feels like an hour. With a Herculean effort Jensen snaps out of his stare and forces an easy smile onto his own face.

"That's, uh." He flushes at the rough sound of his voice and clears his throat. "That's not what I was going to say, actually, but you've sold me. I'll have the same," he directs at the waitress behind the bar, and hears the near-instant clatter of plates being set down as he offers his hand to the stranger and says, "I'm Jensen."

"Jared," the guy says, wrapping his—fucking _enormous_ —hand around Jensen's in a firm, dry grip. He glances at the plates of food and then catches Jensen's eyes again, jerking his head in the direction of the tables. "Want to sit down?"

'Sitting down' is low on the list of things Jensen would like to do with Jared (and if Jensen wasn't entirely convinced before that he's not in Heaven, he might be swayed by the decidedly un-angelic ideas filling his head), but the food smells fantastic and Jensen doesn't want to leave Jared's company, so he picks up his plate and his beer and follows the other man to a table.

Jared's already digging into his food by the time Jensen sits down, and at the first forkful he closes his eyes and lets out a groan that makes Jensen's face flush with heat.

"Oh, my _god_ ," Jared moans, opening his eyes to stare down at his pork chops and mashed potatoes with naked appreciation. "That is the best thing I've ever tasted _in my life_. No offense to my momma, and I hope she can't hear me, but it's even better than she used to make. You have to try it. C'mon, take a bite."

Jared leans forward to unabashedly study Jensen's reaction as he tries a bit of the pork chop. Jared wasn't lying; it's far and away the best pork chop Jensen's ever eaten. He must make some sound or show something on his face, because Jared sits back with a chuckle and tucks into his own meal.

"Seriously, this place," Jared says, shaking his head. "Can you believe it? Did you think it was gonna be like this?"

"I'm still not quite sure _what_ it is," Jensen returns. "But no, I didn't exactly picture the afterlife as a cross between traffic court and my grandparents' retirement community in Palm Desert. Although this place is a big improvement on Panda Express." Jensen fakes a shudder.

Jared drops his head back and laughs, a deep, unrestrained sound that both startles Jensen and makes him smile. Jared's dimples dig even deeper when he laughs. Jensen kind of wants to lick them.

They settle into comfortable small-talk, exchanging observations about Terminal City as they work steadily at their dinners. Jensen glances up now and then during a quiet lull, and more often than not Jared is watching him. The third time he catches him at it Jensen pulls an exaggerated face, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue briefly, not sure where the hell it comes from but gratified when he's rewarded with Jared's soft laughter.

"Seriously, dude, I got something on my face?"

"No, you're good," Jared reassures. He looks back down at his plate, then darts another glance up, almost shy, as he says, "It's just—I feel like—like I _know_ you. You know?" His brow furrows. "I don't, do I?"

Jensen thinks about telling Jared he's an actor— _was_ an actor—but Jared doesn't really seem like a closet _Days of Our Lives_ devotee. He shakes his head, then pauses, frowning.

"You weren't driving the truck, were you?"

The crease in Jared's brow deepens. "The truck?"

"I got hit by a big rig," Jensen explains. "And now I can scratch that off my list of things I never thought I'd get to say."

Jared laughs and shakes his head. "No, that wasn't it. I never drove a truck. Sorry, by the way."

"Thanks. It kind of sucked. I hope that guy's okay, though. I mean, he should be, it was a pretty big truck."

Jensen shakes off the thought, pushing his plate away a little and reaching for his beer, taking a long, slow sip. "So, what did you do? Back, um—"

"When I was alive?" Jared supplies, grin light and teasing when Jensen sputters. "It's okay. I ran a shelter and rehab program for rescued dogs, out in Santa Monica. Mostly pit mixes; the ones county shelters couldn't handle and wanted to put down." He smiles ruefully. "I was actually supposed to meet with some people from the legislature to talk about funding and the new anti-pit bull laws they're trying to roll out when…"

Jared waves his hand vaguely, and Jensen fills in the blank: _When I died._ He grimaces.

"I hope Sandy made it to the meeting," Jared continues. "We really need the support from the state. Sandy knew the proposed legislation inside and out; I'm sure she did fine. I—I hope she's okay."

His expression falters for the first time, gaze sliding from Jensen's as he finishes softly, "I hope they're all okay. I hope the kids are all right. I miss them."

Jensen blinks, blurting out in surprise, "You, uh, you had kids?" He winces and then covers hastily, "I just thought, uh, you know, you're pretty young."

Jared blinks, then smiles, still a little sad around the edges, but his eyes are lighter when they meet Jensen's again.

"My dogs," he clarifies. "Nah, hadn't got around to having kids yet, but I wanted them. We talked about adopting a couple times, but… well." Jared scratches his nose, awkward, then shrugs. "We weren't both ready yet, and I thought there was time, I guess. Harley and Sadie, big slobbery beasts that they were, those were my babies."

"I'm sure they miss you, too," Jensen offers, but then that doesn't seem very comforting, so he changes the subject quickly. "You were married? To, uh, to Sandy?"

Jared chuckles, and Jensen doesn't know why until he says, "No, Sandy was just a good friend. I had a boyfriend. But we were close enough to married. It would've been 10 years this summer."

"That's a long time," Jensen says, impressed and just a little jealous. "God, you must have just been kids."

He pauses, realizes how rude that must sound from a near-total stranger, and feels his face heat. "I didn't mean—"

Jared just grins, dimples flashing full-force as he waves off Jensen's halting apology.

"It's okay. We _were_ kids. Knew each other since I was in sixth grade, got together the summer after my sophomore year. He was a year older. Captain of the basketball team." Jared gives a little eyebrow wriggle and laughs, and heat pools in Jensen's stomach. No question this time: all jealousy. "He had the prettiest little jump shot, and he squinted when he smiled. God, I was in love."

Jared shakes the memory off, gestures loosely at Jensen with his fork. "What about you? Married? Kids?"

"Divorced." He waves away Jared's sympathetic frown. "It only lasted six months. We just… rushed into things, you know? It wasn't her fault. I guess it wasn't anyone's fault, really, it just… well." It's Jensen's turn to shift awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "It took me awhile to figure out some things."

He glances up cautiously, trying to gauge Jared's expression, and thinks he sees a flicker of understanding there.

Jensen looks back down at his plate, feeling his throat get tight, his voice coming out a little rough. "Danni's a great girl. She deserved a lot better. I hope she finds it."

Things are a little awkward for a moment after that, strained around Jensen's confession and thoughts about the lives they so recently left behind. Thankfully, the waitress swings by right on cue to collect their plates and drop off another round of drinks, and by the time she's gone they're sitting shoulder-to-shoulder watching the Cowboys, sipping honest Texas-brewed beer and talking like they've known each other all their lives. Jensen's never felt so immediately comfortable with someone, used to holding back, keeping his guard up and his eyes on the exits, and it makes him nervous in its own way, how relaxed he feels around Jared. It's too easy to be trusted.

Their waitress talks them into slabs of peach pie thick as New World bibles that they eat while the football game winds down to its final seconds. Jensen stands when it's over, making his reluctant goodbyes and wishing Jared luck on tomorrow's first day of trial. They head off in separate directions; Jensen doesn't ask where he's staying. He doesn't even know the guy's last name.

They're here for four days, and then it's back to earth for another try or on into the unknown. Jensen doesn't expect to ever see Jared again.

*  *  *

The hotel's wake-up call leaves Jensen with enough time to take a long shower, get dressed and grab breakfast at the hotel restaurant before the car arrives to take him to Misha's office. He loads his plate at the buffet with perfectly fried eggs and corned beef hash so savory it makes him want to cry, things he wouldn't eat in a million years if he had to worry about the calories; tops it off with the same cup of sweet black coffee he's drunk every morning since he was 18 and finds a quiet place to eat. Once he sits down, though, he finds his appetite has all but disappeared, and though the food here is as good as it was last night, Jensen picks at his breakfast, only managing a few bites between long sips of coffee.

 _Last night_.

Jensen can't stop thinking about it. He can't stop thinking about _Jared_ , about how comfortable he felt around him, how they felt like old friends right from the start. Jensen doesn't make friends easily. He can turn the charm on when he needs to, sweet-talk a producer or make a room of network execs fall in love with him, but it's _work_ , and not something he's ever enjoyed. He's never been the kind of guy who could talk to anyone; and while he gets the feeling that Jared might be that guy, it still doesn't explain how he got to Jensen so fast and hit him so hard that 12 hours later, he still can't shake the man from his mind.

And, yeah, okay, it hadn't hurt that he was gorgeous. If someone had sat down and tried to draw a blueprint of Jensen's ideal guy, they couldn't have done better than Jared. But he doesn't think it's simple physical attraction. There had been a connection there; Jensen hadn't imagined that. Jared had practically named it when he asked Jensen if they knew each other before. Jared had felt it too.

Jensen's saved from having to put his steak knife through his eye over how unforgivably fucking _girly_ that thought is by the arrival of Misha's driver. He spends the short trip to the towering Judgment building wondering whether someone who's technically dead can commit suicide, decides no, and has a theory worked out that his eye would've repaired itself Terminator 2-style if he'd tried it by the time the car comes to a stop.

Misha's waiting for him just inside the door, and Jensen feels the same calm smooth over him that he did at their first meeting. He's still nervous about the day ahead, but the panic eases, and he returns Misha's easy smile.

"Good morning," Misha greets him as he leads him to a bank of elevators. "We're a little early, but I wanted to make sure we had time to go over any questions you had. If you'll just follow me, we'll head up to the viewing room right now and get ourselves settled. How was your evening? Did you sleep well? You look rested."

"Yeah, I slept fine." Now that he thinks about it, Jensen isn't sure; he doesn't remember falling asleep or waking up, and he didn’t dream. He feels rested, though. "I took your advice and went out last night. Got dinner at this sorta sports bar, the Lone Star? I met someone."

He doesn't know why he said it. He doesn't think he meant to, it just fell out of his mouth, and now they're in the elevator and Misha's looking at him, all close and calculating. Jensen can feel how hot his face is.

"Not—I mean, not like _that_ ," he says quickly. Misha goes on studying him. "Just, you know. A fellow Texan, 'cause it was that kind of place? We had dinner. I mean—well, yeah, together, but not _together_. Just, you know. In the same space. Kinda."

Jensen considers prying the doors open and jumping down the elevator shaft, but if his theory about not being able to kill yourself in the afterlife is right, it probably wouldn't accomplish much except to make him look like even more of an idiot. He doesn't need any help with that.

The elevator finally comes to a rest and opens with a ding, and Jensen follows Misha out, gaze glued to the ground. It's a moment before Misha's soft voice breaks the silence.

"So, does this 'someone' have a name?" he asks, and Jensen has to look up, see if—yeah, Misha's smiling. Despite himself, Jensen feels his mouth curve to match.

"Yeah," he says, softly. "Jared."

*  *  *

The viewing room isn't like anything Jensen was expecting, and a little of the tension eases from his shoulders as Misha lets him in and shows him around.

It's small, the size of a standard board room, and filled with simple furniture: large, modern desks flank three walls, padded office chairs tucked against them. Misha deposits Jensen's file and a notepad on one of them, and Jensen guesses the others are for the judges and prosecutor.

The fourth wall is entirely filled by a projection screen that stretches from the floor all the way to the top of the 10-foot ceiling. There's a single chair in the middle of the room, placed halfway between the screen and the desks, and Jensen studies it for a moment, an uneasy suspicion coiled in the pit of his stomach. He glances at the desk where Misha has set up shop: there's only one chair.

"Let me guess," Jensen says grimly. "I've got the front-row seat."

Misha gestures toward the isolated chair without looking up. He's studying a page of hand-written notes, frowning at something, and he seems distracted, far-away as he says, "Take a seat, and I'll give you a quick walk-through of the process before opposing counsel gets here."

Jensen sits down. The chair is surprisingly comfortable; it's thickly padded and covered in butter-soft leather that warms almost immediately to his body temperature. There are several levers along the bottom and up the back to adjust various aspects, and Jensen fiddles with them as he waits on Misha, setting the head rest to just the right height and ratcheting up the lumbar support until the chair seems to suddenly _fit_ , molded around him as if designed specifically for his body. He could spend _hours_ in this chair. He could probably sleep in it, and Jensen can _never_ fall asleep sitting up.

"Wish they'd put these things on planes," he says, more to himself than anyone else.

"They wouldn't be able to cram passengers in like sardines if they did," Misha says from near his shoulder, and Jensen startles a little, looking up.

"Good point." He rubs a hand over his head; the ends of his hair feel strange and soft without the gel he's used every day for years now. "So… what's with the chair and the screen? Are we watching a movie? Like, as part of your, uh, evidence, or whatever?"

Jensen's starting to realize he maybe should have asked more questions yesterday, because he has absolutely no idea what's going to happen, except that it's going to take most of the day. In his defense, he had a lot going on yesterday with dying and everything. He wasn't at his sharpest.

Misha just smirks, clearly entertained by the question.

"In a sense," he says. "We're here, as I mentioned before, to evaluate your life. This screen—" he gestures at the movie screen, "—is going to help us do that. In fact, it will be our primary mode of examination. I could explain the mechanics, but I think a demonstration would be quicker and more useful. If you're amenable?"

Jensen nods, totally beyond lost, but for some reason trusting in Misha to make it all make sense. Maybe because he has no other choice.

"Computer, please show 6-2-23, 7:15 p.m." The lights dim and Jensen feels his chair begin to rotate as Misha murmurs in a softer voice, "Don't be afraid. You are entirely safe."

Then it's darkness, all around him, and though he knows Misha is close enough to touch, Jensen feels alone. The screen flickers once and bursts to life, and Jensen's breath seizes in his lungs, because he's looking at a life-sized version of himself when he was six years old.

*

 _It's a stage rendition of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, as performed by the first graders of Dartmouth Elementary School. Jensen is dressed up as an enormous slice of cherry pie, his face poking through a gap in the lattice crust. The lights on the stage are too bright, and Jensen's been in the costume for hours; sweat prickles at his hairline, a bead of it tracking down his cheek. He itches to wipe it away, but he doesn't want to mess up the red paint covering his face. He has two lines, and he delivers them both with perfect pacing and inflection, pitches his voice to carry to the last row the way Mrs. Anders taught him. When the caterpillar swoops in to eat him he gives an impromptu little death throe that makes the whole audience laugh, and he doesn't feel the heat or the weight of the costume straps digging into his shoulders as joy expands in his chest. It's Jensen's first play._

*

 

"Well, that was just _adorable_."

Jensen's still reeling from what he's just seen and heard, what he _felt_ , the images so richly detailed and real that it was almost like dreaming, hovering just outside of himself. It takes him a long moment to come back to the present and realize that it was a woman's voice that broke the silence. There are other people in the room; as the lights go back up and his eyes adjust, Jensen can see two men talking at one of the tables, guesses they must be the judges. The woman who spoke is still standing near the door, arms crossed over her chest, gaze fixed on Misha.

"Good morning, Genevieve," Misha offers the woman blandly, the faintest hint of irritation tucked into the thin line of his mouth. "I see you're in as pleasant a disposition as always today."

"Getting an early start on working the sympathy vote, Misha? That's cute. Flirting with a trial violation, too, but of course, you knew that."

Jensen grabs Misha's jacket sleeve and tugs him down a little, hissing at him, "I thought you said this wasn't a trial." He can't take his eyes off the woman, still smirking in the doorway, her dark, liquid gaze burning a hole right between Misha's shoulder blades.

"It isn't a trial," Misha responds calmly, shaking Jensen free and smoothing out the arm of his suit jacket. "Don't worry about it."

Jensen glances up at Misha, uncertain, not quite warmed the way he usually is by his defender's easy smile. When he shifts his gaze back to the woman she's left the doorway and settled behind the remaining desk, and she's looking right at him.

"You must be Jensen," she says. She's objectively pretty, her thick mane of dark brown hair lashed back with a heavy clip and her near-black eyes crackling with electricity. She smiles, and Jensen sees how it could be charming, alluring, if there wasn't so much menace behind it. "I'm Genevieve, your prosecutor. I'm the one who's sending you back to earth."

Jensen feels his throat tighten and he fights against the need to swallow. "Uh. Hi?"

"Don't talk to her," Misha orders coolly, not sparing either of them a glance. "In fact, unless she's asking you a direct question that you have to answer, just imagine she isn't even there."

"That's not very friendly, Mish," Genevieve mock-simpers. Jensen watches Misha's jaw tick, and he has the uncomfortable feeling that he's about to witness the opposing counsel equivalent of a domestic dispute before a man's voice cuts in.

"Let's wrap up the pleasantries," one of the judges says. He's a thin-faced older man with wavy ginger hair falling around the collar of his black robes. His voice is slightly husky, firm, commanding attention and demanding obedience. Misha and Genevieve both have the good grace to look slightly guilty.

"I apologize, your honor," Misha mumbles with a hint of true contrition, and Genevieve echoes him, equally sincere. Although the suspiciously trial-like non-trial ahead of him may be fought out between prosecutor and defender, it's obvious from the respect they command that the judges have the real power, and Jensen takes careful note, thinking about how he can make himself more appealing to the judges, use it to his advantage.

"Right then," the man says briskly. "Mr. Ackles, good morning, and welcome to the Judgment Center and to Terminal City. I trust your lawyer has filled you in on everything." Jensen nods, but the judge hardly pauses. "I'm Judge Manners. This is my colleague, Judge Kripke. We'll be presiding over the next three days of this process."

Judge Manners takes a seat next to Judge Kripke, confers with him for a quiet moment, and then looks up suddenly, meeting Jensen's eyes with an unwavering gaze.

"Though I'm sure your defender has already explained everything satisfactorily, let me just reiterate: though this may look and feel like a trial, it really isn't. It is a process that has been developed over many millennia to evaluate your readiness to move on to the next stage. While it is imperfect, it is the best process that the collective minds of the universe have put together. Your part in it—your part _now_ —is to simply be as open and honest as possible. That's important to remember, Mr. Ackles, so I'm going to say it one more time: to the greatest of your abilities, _be honest_. The only person you can help or hurt here is yourself."

With that sober pronouncement still ringing in the air, the trial begins.

*  *  *

They're halfway to the elevators when someone behind him calls out, "Jensen?"

Jensen stops in his tracks, already twisting to look back down the hall even before the blush has fully risen in his face. Jared is just leaving one of the viewing rooms, a tall, broad-chested man with salt-and-pepper hair who must be his defender following at his side. Jared's face lights up with a grin, and he turns to exchange a few murmured words with his defender before jogging down the hall to catch up with Jensen, still beaming.

"Hey. Can't believe we ended up just a few doors from each other. Are you done for the day?" His hazel gaze flickers over Jensen's shoulder to Misha. "Hi."

"Yeah, just finished up," Jensen answers. He's about to say more, but he hears Misha shift slightly at his side, feels the faint press of his elbow, and he bites back a sigh. He feels like a kid picking up a date at her house for the first time. "This is my defender, Misha."

"You must be Jared," Misha says as he shakes Jared's hand. "It's nice to meet you."

Jensen's face could not possibly get any redder. He's going to _kill_ Misha. Jared blinks a few times; then his smile slides into something both a little fond and teasing, his eyes darting swiftly to Jensen before returning to Misha.

"I'm Jared," he agrees. "Nice to meet you, Misha. You mind if I steal your client, if you're all done with him for the day? I promise not to keep him out late, it's just that he sort of owes me dinner."

Which is dumb and obvious, because it's not like they even have to _pay_ for anything here, Jared just decided what they were having and Jensen went along, but try telling that to the swooping hot feeling in Jensen's stomach. Jared wants to have dinner with him. _Again_. Jensen wonders if the afterlife is working the same weird spell on Jared, making him feel like a teenage girl with her first crush, or if Jared was the same way when he was alive.

"We're all done," Misha tells Jared with a smile. "You boys have fun."

His elbow unsubtly nudges Jensen again. He's enjoying this whole encounter _way_ too much, and Jensen kind of wants to kick him in the ankle, but Jared's looking at him again, bright and expectant. One of Jared's huge hands reaches for him, and before Jensen can really think about it he jams his hands into his jacket, leaving Jared grasping at empty air, plainly surprised. Jensen offers him a tight, almost apologetic smile, nodding toward the elevators, and Jared hesitates, then shrugs and nods, fixing on a smile as he pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and follows Jensen down the hall.

"See you tomorrow, Misha," Jensen tells his defender as passes by. He can feel Misha looking at him, trying to catch his eye, but he doesn't look back.

*  *  *

"Seriously, Jensen, you _have_ to try this ice cream. I might _cry_ if you don't try it. It's the best ice cream I've ever tasted."

" _Everything_ here is the best _anything_ you've ever tasted," Jensen points out, but he's grinning, and Jared's grinning, too, and it's _awesome_. He likes seeing Jared smile even more than he likes the food here, though he'd never say it out loud. Jared wouldn't understand.

"Just one bite," Jared coaxes, waving the ice cream in front of Jensen's face, like if he catches the scent of the fresh-made cone he won't be able to resist. It does smell pretty fantastic, but Jensen just scrunches his face up and pushes Jared lightly, makes him rock back to sprawl across the bench they're sitting on.

"Stop trying to push your ice cream on me, ice cream-pusher."

"It's the best ice cream that's ever existed," Jared continues on blithely, making his pitch around long licks up the melting sides of the double scoop. "It's probably illegal on earth to make ice cream this good, because then everyone would sit around just eating ice cream and not going to work or anything and the economy would collapse."

"No ice cream is _that_ good," Jensen argues. "C'mon now. You're exaggerating."

"It's orgasmic," Jared responds, perfect deadpan. "I'm going to come just from eating it."

Jensen can't stop the color creeping up the back of his neck, stomach hot and swimming, almost drunk off the effect those words have, Jared's unwavering gaze. He leans forward and snags a bite of ice cream with his teeth just to have something to do, sucking it across his tongue, hoping desperately that the shock of cold will stop the flush from spreading to his cheeks and making all his freckles stand out. Jared's gaze flickers with surprise, like he didn't think Jensen would really take the bait; then his eyes drop to watch Jensen's mouth, and the flash of heat that darkens them loosens a tiny, breathless sound from Jensen's throat.

"See, it's good, yeah?" Jared asks, licking his own lips to mirror Jensen. His voice has fallen soft and low, a little worn like it's been hard-used. The sound of it makes Jensen blindingly hard. He couldn't tell you right now if the ice cream is good or not, couldn't tell you what flavor it is, couldn't even tell you where they're sitting. It's crazy, how hot and stupid Jared makes him with just his voice, just his eyes and his smile.

There wasn't a lot of time, there at the end, between finalizing things with Danneel and the car crash, and Jensen knows on an intellectual level that if he were still alive, this is exactly the kind of thing he would be looking for. He knows he's got all kinds of unfinished business, cut down in the prime of his life, just when he was starting to figure things out, but it feels like more than that. It feels the same way it did last night, when he'd talked so easily with Jared, opened up and told him things he hadn't said to anyone before. Like they were meant to meet; whether here or somewhere else, now or some other time, he doesn't know, but destined all the same.

He's shaken from his thoughts by Jared calling his name; "Jensen, Jensen," and then " _Jen_ ," and that sends a shiver up his spine that he doesn't even try to hide. He opens his eyes, wondering when he'd closed them, and meets Jared's gaze; catches sight of Jared's hand in his peripheral vision, hovering near his face, and nods, swallowing three times before he can find his voice.

"Yeah," he says, "it's good," and he's not talking about the ice cream. Jared's hand touches his face, curves around to palm his jaw, and relief floods him that Jared gets it, that he doesn't have to say more than that, because he doesn't think he can. And then Jared's kissing him, slow and warm and firm, and Jensen can't think or feel anything else.

It doesn't feel like a first kiss, not the way they fall so easily together. Jared's hand angles his head just right, and Jensen finds the soft, sensitive flesh on the inside of Jared's lip with his teeth, drags out a moan. He doesn't feel like he's done this before, exactly, like he already knows all of Jared's tells and weaknesses; more like everything he does is the _right_ thing, something instinctive, blood-deep. And Jared, Jared feels the same way against him; tongue curling _there_ , fingers pressing _here_ , and Jensen's sure no one's ever felt this good. Jared's fingers sift through his hair, trace the shell of his ear, and it's electric, sensation sparking in his skin from the most innocent of touches until he's crazy with it.

Maybe it's this place. Maybe it's always like this, here; hell, maybe they're the first ones to even try this up here. Jensen doesn't know. He just doesn't want it to stop.

He also doesn't want to start dry humping Jared on a bench in the middle of a park for the entire afterlife to see. After a few more long, indulgent kisses he manages to convince his body of that, and pulls away. Jared lets him go unwillingly with a quiet groan of protest, lashes fluttering and tongue flicking out to wet his lips before he opens his eyes.

Jensen almost says 'the hell with it' and grabs him again, but he restrains himself. Instead, before he can think long enough to get nervous, he says, "Come back to my hotel with me."

For just an instant, Jared's whole face lights up. Then, like the switch was flipped, his expression falls, and he fixes Jensen with a half-apologetic, half-pleading look that makes his stomach clench.

"I can't," he says.

"Okay," Jensen says. He jerks his hand back from Jared's shoulder, runs it over his hair, not looking at the other man. "Yeah, that's fine. That was kinda sudden. Sorry."

"No—Jensen, it's not that, not that I don't _want_ to. I just _can't_. I've, uh… I've sorta got plans."

"Plans."

Jared winces. "Yeah. I'm sorry—"

"Jared—you're _dead_. You've been in the afterlife for _two days_. Who the fuck could possibly have _plans_ with?"

"Jeff. My defender? He's having this kind of cocktail party thing, just this little get-together with some other residents, and, uh, he invited me. Said there'd be some really interesting people there, and he thought we'd hit it off. It's kind of rare, a client being invited to one of these things."

Jared squirms a little when he says it, like he's uncomfortable being singled out with the attention, and on anyone else Jensen would call bullshit, but Jared's totally sincere, he can tell. It makes him want to kiss the guy breathless. He ends up chewing at his thumbnail just to stop himself from reaching for him.

"I didn't want to be rude, and it _did_ sound interesting, so I said yes. The way we left it last night—I didn't think I was ever going to see you again. I'm sorry."

Jensen closes his eyes, breathing out. "Hey, it's okay," he says in his best I-am-not-going-to-cry-like-a-girl-stood-up-at-prom tone. "You've got… plans. What're you gonna do? It's starting to get dark; I should probably head back anyway. Leave you to your…yeah."

"Hey."

Jensen's already on his feet, but he stops. Would have stopped at the tone of that single word, even if Jared's long, sun-browned fingers weren't suddenly cuffed around his wrist. And man, there's a whole new set of images Jensen really doesn't need occupying his brain right now.

"It's okay, Jared." Jensen flashes a smile to show he means it. "Bad timing. No big deal."

" _Hey_." And now those fingers are tightening, _pulling_ , and Jensen is forced to meet Jared's gaze as he turns and stumbles forward a step, coming up hard against the bigger man. Jared's slanted hazel eyes are wide-open sincere, locked on Jensen like he can see inside, and someone should really give Jensen a fucking medal for not just shoving Jared down right here and having his way with him. Will of _iron_.

"It is a big deal," Jared says, softly. "I want to see you again. I just—can't tonight. But I want to see you again."

Jensen fights the flush he can feel building beneath the surface as his heartbeat speeds up.

"Yeah?" he asks, just as quietly. He takes a chance, twisting his wrist a little in Jared's grasp until he can stroke the tips of his fingers down the inside of other man's arm. The sharp breath that catches in Jared's throat makes the risk more than worth it.

"I really," Jared murmurs, tugging Jensen closer, "really," other arm enfolding him, "want to see you again," the last words mumbled almost inaudibly against his cheek. Jensen closes his eyes, letting Jared press his mouth open with hot, lazy kisses until they're both panting for breath, wet lips sticking, sharing air.

"Tomorrow night," Jared says, sealing it with a last searing kiss that leaves Jensen's head carbonated and filled with promise.

*  *  *

"—had faced his fears that night, he might not have been plagued for another decade by the same doubts and self-recriminations that stopped him then."

Jensen sits through trial the next morning in a daze. At least privately he's stopped pretending it's anything else, no matter what Judge Manners said. He's on trial, and if he's found guilty, his sentence is another lifetime on earth. It's really important, and he should definitely be paying attention.

"I object."

"On what grounds?"

He wonders how Jared's trial is going, just a few doors away. He probably has the judges eating out of his hand. Jensen can't imagine anything in Jared's life that would make the other man flinch, make his stomach burn in shame; Jared never blushes or looks away. He's so confident, and at the same time so unassuming. Comfortable in his own skin. If this process is really about facing fears and becoming a better person, Jensen doesn't have any doubt that Jared will move on.

"On the grounds that it's purely speculative? You have no idea why my client made the decision he did."

Yeah, Jared will move on. He'll move on, and Jensen will go back to earth for another ride, and he won't remember any of this, just like every other time he's been here. Will Jared still remember him, wherever he goes? Will he think about him? Miss him, even? Jensen doubts it. Why should Jared give him another thought, once he's gone? He has so much ahead of him, so much open to him—why would he waste time thinking about a guy he knew for a couple of days at what's essentially a cosmic bus station?

"Why don't we ask your client, then. Mr. Ackles? Would you care to explain yourself?"

"He had a cocktail party," Jensen mumbles without thought.

The silence stretches for a moment, pointed, and then Misha clears his throat. "Tom?"

Jensen blinks rapidly back to the present. Everyone in the room is staring at him. Genevieve seems annoyed; the judges look both bored and slightly amused. Misha just looks confused.

"What? No, sorry, I was… uh, lost in thought. What was the question?"

Genevieve huffs out a breath through her nose. "I'm sorry, are we _boring_ you, Mr. Ackles? Is this a waste of your time?"

Misha's nostrils flare at the edge in Genevieve's voice, but he seems more angry at Jensen than the prosecutor. Jensen winces, straightening his shoulders and fixing first the judges and then Genevieve with an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry, this is all… it's still pretty overwhelming," he says, pushing out the note of worry, playing it up. "I'm trying my best. Please, could you repeat the question?"

Genevieve sucks the inside of her lip like she's tasting lemons, clearly not buying the act for a second, but she does as he requests. "The night your roommate, Tom, kissed you," she says slowly, letting it sink in, each word a separate dagger. "Why did you stop it? Why did you leave?"

Jensen stills. A freeze-frame of the memory still glows on the screen, but he doesn't need to look at it to remember, just like he didn't need to see the movie. He did everything he could to avoid watching it play out in front of him again, happy to distract himself and let Misha and Genevieve argue themselves blue. He already lived it once; that was enough for him. But now Genevieve is asking him a direct question, and he can't ignore her anymore.

It had been May, a sticky-hot night full of cramming for finals and quiet music, study breaks snuck from a bottle of JB, until around about midnight they forgot what they were taking a break from and just settled into the drunk. Tommy shared the big room in a four-person house with him; not ideal for a guy like Jensen who needed a space to call his own, but it kept the rent down, and against all odds Jensen ended up liking the guy. They got… not close. Not quite that. Comfortable, though.

Somewhere under his heavy layers of scared stupid and utterly in denial, Jensen knew Tom was throwing out signals. Somewhere buried even deeper inside Jensen knew he was returning them. He hadn't known what it meant, hadn't totally understood what he'd been playing at, just knew that he liked the lidded glances Tommy sent him, the way they made his pulse pound and his skin tight.

There had been something hanging in the air between them all year, a tension that grew with the waxing heat. That night when Tommy had pushed Jensen down across their open biology textbooks and licked into his mouth, Jensen had felt the tension swell and shatter around them. It felt like all the heat outside was gathered on the end of Tommy's tongue, feeding into him, pulling him apart. He couldn’t imagine anything better. For about ten seconds, there was nothing in the whole world he wanted more than Tom's mouth against his, Tom's big hands pushed up under his shirt. And then he'd proceeded to freak the fuck out.

"Wasn't the right time," Jensen mumbles, quiet voice still sounding way too loud against the expectant silence.

"Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you."

Jensen forces his eyes up from Genevieve's throat, fixes her with a resentful glare. "It wasn't the _right time_ ," he repeats. "It was—it was too fast. I wasn't ready."

"And what do you think it would have taken for you to be 'ready'? When was the _right time?_ "

"I don't _know_ ," he spits back. "I just didn't feel it, okay? What's wrong with that? Was I supposed to sleep with him? Would that have been the right choice?"

"You tell me. You moved out at the end of the month, didn't you, Mr. Ackles?"

"I—it was finals week. The house was noisy, I couldn't concentrate. That had nothing to do with Tom."

"Really. And he just happened to be away at his parents' house the weekend you packed up your stuff, is that what you're saying? It was just coincidence?"

"I—"

"You never saw Tom again after that, did you, Mr. Ackles?"

"I… saw him around." It's almost a whisper, but Genevieve doesn't ask him to repeat it. He isn't looking at her anymore. He isn't looking at anything. All he can see is Tom's face in his mind's eye; the kiss-swollen shape of his mouth, the confused angle of his brows. The hurt in his eyes when he'd waved across the quad to Jensen a week later, and Jensen had pretended not to see him there.

His stomach hurts, and he thinks he might be sick. He hasn't thought about Tommy in nearly ten years. It shouldn't feel this way.

"Your Honors." Misha's voice glides through the quiet room, parting the silence with a delicate touch. "It's getting close to noon. May I request we break for lunch and pick this up when we return?"

Jensen expects Genevieve to protest, but she doesn't say a word. Judge Kripke calls for an hour break for lunch, and the small room is filled with the sounds of rustling papers and rolling chairs. Misha appears at Jensen's side, his hand hovering for a moment before falling gently to grasp Jensen's shoulder.

"Come on," Misha says with a tone Jensen doesn't recognize. He glances up, and Misha offers him a smile, same as always, but there's something behind it that Jensen hasn't seen before. Misha almost looks sad.

*  *  *

"What happened back there?"

Misha's eating a chopped salad, scooping up forkfuls with such orderly timing and precision that his plate clears in patches, grid-like. Jensen's sort of numbly fascinated.

Jensen's burger is thick and juicy, well-cooked with a core of light pink, just the way he likes it. He's been gagging on the same bite for five minutes now, tasting nothing but a mouthful of dead flesh. It has to be something wrong with him: everything's delicious in Terminal City.

"With what?"

Misha fixes him with a steady look, not even pausing in his neat destruction of the salad. "You should have tried playing stupid three days ago," he says. "I'm not buying it now."

Jensen gives up on the burger. He washes down the gummy lump of food in his mouth with a long swig of Coke. It's got real sugar in it, like the extra-tall bottles the migrant workers would sell by the side of the road next to flats of strawberries. It's shockingly cold, so good, just this side of too sweet.

"It isn't fair," he says at length.

Misha cocks his head to the side. "What isn't?"

"This whole thing. Her questions. Everything you're asking of me. It isn't fair."

Jensen can feel Misha's gaze on him, cool and appraising, but he doesn't look up. He stirs his straw through his glass of Coke, listening to the melting ice cubes clink, and says, "You didn't give me a chance. You want me to sit there and defend my life, the choices I made, but I only got to live a piece of it. I was thirty years old. You didn't give me enough time."

"I know," Misha says.

Jensen's eyes burn like they're dry from wearing his contacts for too long, but when he wipes his hand across them something warm and damp clings to his skin.

"I could have done it," he whispers. "I could have changed it. Made it better. I was trying, but you didn't give me enough time."

And Misha says, "I know. I'm so sorry."

*  *  *

It doesn't get any better after lunch. Jensen spends the afternoon watching a life-sized version of himself propose to Danneel, and then another, only slightly older version sign divorce papers with her side-by-side at their kitchen table. Watching it a second time is like having a lost limb reattached just so it can be chopped off again. Outside of his narrow perspective, Jensen can look at the larger picture, see things that weren't possible before. He watches Danni study him when his head is bent, the pain unmasked in her eyes, and the depth of love and hurt there leaves him reeling.

He never understood how she could look at him like that. Like he was anyone worth feeling so _much_ over—so much happiness, so much anger and misery. It was hardly ever all good between them, but she never backed down, never gave less than her whole heart. Jensen gave her so little of himself in return.

The scene ends with a pull-back shot of the two of them sitting silently together, Jensen's hand covering Danneel's on top of the mountain of paperwork, the ink still drying on their signatures. It's a good shot; Jensen's inner director approves of the stark lines of the image, the dramatic angle of the light. It makes their heartache look so pretty and clean, when all Jensen can remember feeling is tired.

There's silence for a moment, and then the faintest scrape of sound, just at the door; the scuff of a sneaker and the slide of an indrawn breath. Jensen looks up as the screen flickers off and the lights slowly rise to see Jared in the doorway, pale-faced and looking caught out, spotlighted. He flushes as his eyes lock with Jensen's, and Jensen can read the apology there. As if Jared is the one who has anything to apologize for.

"Sorry," Jared offers to the room at large. "I, uh, I thought you'd be done. It's 4:15."

It's Misha that finally breaks the impasse. "It's okay, Jared," he says, and his tone is as even as always, but in that moment Jensen can hear the press of centuries in Misha's voice. "We lost track of time. We're done now."

Misha angles a questioning glance at the judges, but it's just for show; he's already gathering up his notes. Jensen waits a moment for the judges to stop him, for Genevieve to protest. When nothing happens, he slips from the chair and makes his way across the room on weak legs to Jared.

"Get me out of here," he says to Jared, and they walk away without looking back.

*  *  *

Jared tries to bring it up as they wait for the first round of beer, and then again as Jensen works at emptying his fourth or fifth bottle. The Lone Star is packed tonight, crowded with broad shoulders and steady drawls, the buzz of conversation and laughter, and Jensen feigns deafness the first time, gesturing helplessly at his ears and then the room at large before hefting his beer and draining half of it in one go.

Jared lets him get away with it for the moment. The second time he asks, Jensen's drunk enough to lose his manners and simply ignore the questions. It takes a little longer this time, but eventually Jared gives up again, and he lets Jensen drink himself into happy oblivion.

*  *  *

If Jensen wasn't already abundantly aware of it before, he'd know Jared was a much, much better person than he is as soon as he stepped into his hotel room. His hotel room fucking _rocks_. It's tasteful and luxurious and _huge_. Jared-sized, almost. Jensen snickers.

Jensen's drunk. It doesn't seem like that should really be possible when you're dead. In fact, he'd made a bet about it with Jared in the bar, somewhere into the second round, and then six bottles of Shiner later Jared was helping pour him into the elevator. So much for that theory.

"That's a dresser," Jared helpfully points out as Jensen runs into it knee-first. "And that's a desk. Keep goin', man, you're only about five collisions away from the bed."

"Fuck," Jensen says with feeling. He sprawls out on his back on the bed and runs a numb hand over his face. "This is… not how I meant for this to go."

"You don't say." Jared sits down on the bed next to him with a heavy sigh, but when Jensen drags his gaze up to his face the other man is smiling gently. "S'okay. Day like you had, you needed to let off some steam."

"Yeah," Jensen breathes, kind of beyond the capacity for words. He's stuck on Jared's profile, the perfect line of his throat. He tries to push himself up to kiss it, but his head's thick and spinny, so he snags a hand in Jared's shirt and pulls him down instead.

Jared makes a surprised sound, a rush of breath against his mouth, and Jensen seals them together and swallows it down.

For a moment they're both motionless, breaths held and pulses trembling. If Jared pushes him away now Jensen thinks he might just test out that theory about being unable to off yourself in the afterlife.

Even as the thought bounces through his mind, though, he can feel the tension shifting, possibility sparked like lightening, scenting the air. Jared heaves a huge breath inward, shuddering against him. His mouth moves against Jensen's, not in a kiss, but like he's trying to speak, and no. Fuck no. Jensen is _not_ having that.

"Just kiss me," he pants out in a rush, the sounds almost lost in Jared's mouth. Jared shudders again, and it gives him courage. "Jesus, Jared—don't think. So fuckin' tired of thinking. Just fucking kiss me."

Jensen almost chokes on his own drunken bravado, but it's worth it. A soft sound tears itself from Jared's throat, and then there are hands on Jensen's face, holding him in place while that soft mouth works against his and eats him up from the outside in.

It's as good as the first time, and Jensen was almost afraid it wouldn't be; that whatever clicked and fused between them yesterday and made every touch so sweet would be gone today. But it's there again, that same sense of connection, of _rightness_ , something almost like an itch just below the surface of his skin. It makes Jensen reckless and greedy, pushing up into the kiss just to hear the sounds Jared makes, stolen little gasps and moans that just make him burn that much hotter.

"Up, up," Jensen orders, and Jared pulls back with this dazed, drugged shine to his eyes that makes Jensen so hard he can barely see straight.

"You—d'you wanna stop?" Jared asks, confused, pushing himself up a little.

" _Fuck_ , no." Jensen lifts up to his elbows, pressing his mouth brief and hot to Jared's throat. He drags a hand up Jared's spine, wrapping fingers in his shirt and giving it a tug. "Just want to get you naked."

"Oh thank jesus," Jared breathes, huge goofy grin on his face as he sits back and pulls the shirt over his head, pops the button on his jeans. He's every bit as gorgeous underneath his clothes as Jensen imagined, all lean muscle and sun-kissed skin that begs Jensen to bite and lick. He slides off the bed to kick out of his jeans and briefs, and Jensen kind of loses it a bit, struck dumb by the sight of Jared's long legs and sharp hips, his thick, perfect cock. He groans low in his throat, crazy with want, and Jared turns faintly pink.

"Gorgeous, Jared, god, c'mere," he urges, trying to pull the bigger man back down, but Jared resists him, laughing and ducking to kiss Jensen's mouth just to quiet his whine.

"You, you first," Jared mumbles, crawling over him, big hands working urgently at Jensen's jeans. "Wanna see you, Jensen, so beautiful, you're so goddamn beautiful."

Jensen's the one blushing now, but he lets Jared undress him, shrugs out of his shirt and lifts his hips helpfully so Jared can drag off his jeans and boxers. When they're both finally naked Jared just stares at him for a minute, eyes moving all over his body the way Jensen wants his hands. Jensen's skin prickles and he shifts a little, starting to get self-conscious, when Jared leans in and licks a broad stripe from the base of Jensen's dick up to the tip.

"Fuck!" Jensen gasps out in surprise, stomach clenching as he watches Jared smirk and do it again before wrapping his mouth around the head and giving a good, firm suck. He eases back, tongue flickering out lightly, then seals his mouth and sucks again, alternating the hot, wet pressure with almost teasing touches until Jensen's eyes are rolling back and he has to get a hand in Jared's hair and pull him away.

"Want—want to—oh, god, your _mouth_ —" Jensen touches the corner of Jared's mouth, runs a fingertip over his spit-slick, swollen bottom lip, getting distracted. "Want to be inside you, feel you around me. Wanna fuck you, Jared, can I?"

Jared doesn't answer him, not in words, but by the way he growls low in his throat and surges up for a hard, dirty kiss, Jensen feels pretty confident in assuming Jared's down with that plan. He gets sidetracked again by Jared's mouth on his, the taste of himself sharp and hot on Jared's tongue, and it's Jared who has to break the contact this time, pushing back even as Jensen grumbles displeasure and tries to drag him in again.

"Gotta get something to slick you up," Jared murmurs, nipping at Jensen's jaw. "'Less you don't wanna fuck me anymore?"

Jensen's hands fly away like he's been burned, and Jared laughs openly at him as he hauls himself up and ducks into the bathroom. Jensen doesn't waste time being embarrassed. He just admires the view.

Jared comes back with a travel-size bottle of lotion that he half-empties over Jensen's hand. They make out with messy enthusiasm as Jensen opens Jared up nice and slow on his fingers, twisting and pressing when he's got three worked inside just to hear the little punched-out noises Jared makes. He looks and sounds so hot like this, writhing on Jensen's fingers, and Jensen has to stop teasing abruptly and pull them out before he comes all over himself just from watching Jared fall apart.

There's an awkward moment as Jensen kneels between Jared's thighs and they meet gazes, because this is about when Jensen would be rolling on a condom if they were, well, alive on earth and not at a way station to the afterlife. "Should I—" he starts, not really sure how to continue, because what _can_ he actually do? It doesn't matter though, because Jared shakes his head, tells him, "No, it's okay, c'mon," and Jensen does not need to be told twice.

It isn't the first time he's ever been with a guy—he made sure, before he ended things with Danneel; needed to know that this was really what he wanted, that there was no possibility they could work things out. It's the first time it's been more than an anonymous fuck, though, some random hard-muscled body that was just there for Jensen to test a theory. It's the first time it's _meant_ something. Jensen can't believe how much difference that makes.

It's so hot, so goddamn tight. Everything in his world narrows down to the slick heat wrapped around his dick, the thrilled shock of watching himself push into Jared's body until he's buried there. He's raw with pleasure, so good it almost hurts, right on the edge of too much and not enough. He has to move, has to thrust and grind and fuck until Jared's crying and begging for more, begging him not to stop, but if he moves he's pretty sure he's going to lose his fucking mind.

"Jen," Jared groans, all low and desperate, this insanely hot sound that melts Jensen's spine. He's _beautiful_. "Jensen, god damn, you're killing me. Fuck me, c'mon, baby, please, just _move_."

It's the 'baby' that does it, and Jensen would be surprised at himself over how hot that gets him if he wasn't busy screwing Jared through the mattress. Or if he still possessed a working brain. The most he can manage is a groan of approval against Jared's mouth as he hooks his legs up and presses them back; opening him wider, working himself deeper, until Jared is shaking and cursing beneath him and Jensen's vision is edged with grey.

They move together like they were made for this, all snapping hips and grasping hands, mouths hot and clinging. They fuck like the world is ending and kiss like they can only breathe through each other, and Jensen never, ever wants to stop. He tries to get control, tries to push himself back from the edge, but he's too close now, and all he can do is get a hand around that gorgeous cock and drag Jared down with him.

"Want to feel you come, oh god, Jared, come for me," Jensen gasps out, and then he's coming himself; sharp knot of pleasure unwinding at the base of his spine, flooding his limbs with heat. He's only distantly aware of Jared crying out and jerking against him, body tightening around Jensen's cock in one long, almost painful clench and then a series of sweet spasms, each wave dragging another groan from his lips.

It's minutes before his vision clears and sound returns, the thrum of blood in his head almost as loud as Jared's rasping breaths. Jensen's collapsed on top of him, who knows how long he's been there, and it's probably not making it any easier for Jared to catch his breath. He tries to push himself up, arms still trembling and weak, but Jared just shifts him a little to the side and pulls him down again, and Jensen goes with it.

With the frantic heat of the moment behind them, Jensen feels the weight of things unsaid press down, but he's tired enough to ignore them for now. Jared whispers something against his jaw, _good_ and _beautiful_ and _stay_. More things he can't understand and others he's not sure he wants to, and he lets Jared's voice and the soft brush of his mouth lull him to sleep.

*  *  *

Jensen wakes up early enough that it's still mostly dark out, the soft flush of a false dawn glowing along the horizon. His head pounds and his vision reels a little as he pushes himself up, but his mind is clear. He can remember every moment of last night, and the memories flood him with equal measures of warmth and guilt.

He stares down at the space where Jared's stretched out beside him, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark until he can make out the smudged lines of the other man's form, the smaller details of his sharp face coming slowly into focus. He's on his stomach facing Jensen, one arm curled under the pillow, the other curled against his chest, a fist tucked under his chin. He's breathing soft and deep through his mouth like a little kid, and Jensen can see exactly what he looked like at six years old, can picture the long sprawl of his limbs shrinking like a reverse growth spurt, the soft bow of his mouth and those hazel eyes huge and luminous in his small face. It's easy to imagine, maybe because there's still something so charmingly childlike about Jared as an adult; something open and honest in his face, so completely unexpected.

Jensen doesn't know what the hell he's doing here. This isn't him. This isn't what he _does_. He doesn't understand what's happening to him; he feels like he's been pulled inside-out, everything he's spent a lifetime keeping hidden suddenly on display. Everything's changed so quickly he can't catch his breath, and somehow coming to terms with his own death seems like the very least of it.

Death never scared him. This place, this whole process, the decision that hangs in the balance—none of that scares him. This, right here: watching Jared sleep an inch away and feeling like he never wants to be anywhere else—this scares him.

Jared fucking terrifies him.

Jensen doesn't know how he's managed to get so close. He doesn't know how he's let him. In three days Jared has made his way past defenses Jensen spent a lifetime constructing, and now he's hours away from losing him forever.

Jensen doesn't have any illusions about the future for either of them. Jared will go on, and Jensen will be sent back, and that will be the end of it. It makes his stomach sick to think about. He doesn't know if Jared's arrived at the same conclusion, but he thinks probably not, because Jared's the kind of incurable optimist who sees the best in everyone. He thinks, if Jared knew, he probably wouldn't have held Jensen quite so close, wouldn't have held him quite so tight and told him to stay. Wouldn't have looked at Jensen with all that light and hope in his eyes like this was the start of something, rather than the end.

He slips out of bed and gets dressed in the thin grey morning light. The sun is rising on his final day by the time he leaves Jared's hotel and climbs into a cab. He doesn't look back.

*  *  *

Misha meets his arrival with a searching, worried look, but he doesn't say anything, and for that Jensen is unspeakably grateful. He spent an hour restless and wide-awake in his own bed before he finally dragged himself up again and into the shower, and he feels stretched thin, raw and ready to snap under the barest pressure.

Most of the morning is spent reviewing the evidence brought so far by both sides and cross-examining Jensen on all of it, down to smallest detail. It's exhausting, answering question after question, defending his actions and explaining his thoughts as Genevieve pushes his already frayed nerves to their limit. He loses his temper when she asks him essentially the same question for the third time in different words, sarcastically suggesting she just dictate what answer she wants him to give so that they can move on already. Judge Manners calls for a short recess after that, but 15 minutes later they're back at it, just as heated, and by the time they break for lunch Jensen is ready to snap.

They come back from lunch and launch directly into closing arguments. Misha goes first, and Jensen tries hard to pay attention, nodding in agreement with Misha's points and putting all his energy into looking like the guy Misha's trying to portray him as. He sneaks glances at the judges as Misha talks, trying to gauge their reactions, but they're concrete walls, totally unreadable. It's just impossible to tell which way they're gonna go.

When it comes time for Genevieve's closing statements, she turns to look at him for a long, silent moment. Her stare is direct and unnerving, a knife peeling back his layers, getting at the core of him. He can feel his back teeth grind and slide with the clench of his jaw, trying to hold her gaze. Abruptly she looks away.

"Computer," she says quietly, "please show 30-2-16."

Jensen's used to the proceedings enough now to automatically translate the numbers into distinct sections of his life, guessing at what the particular day in question might contain, but this selection throws him. He died a few months after his 30th birthday, so the scene has to be close to the end of his life. Very close. In fact—

It takes Misha almost as long to recover from his shock, because just before Jensen's worked it out he can hear Misha's voice ringing out, calling, "Objection!", but the movie's already begun to play.

*

 _Jensen and Jared are curled around each other in the dark hotel room, the sheet barely pulled high enough to keep them decent and leaving no room for doubt about what they were up to only minutes earlier. Jared's pressing kisses to his sleepy mouth, running his hands over Jensen's hair and murmuring in that low, fucked-out voice, so hot and sweet._

 _"You're so beautiful, Jensen," he's saying, brushing a kiss over Jensen's cheek. "You don't know how much I want you, how much I've been wanting you. Took so long to find you, but it's good now. 'Cause I think I love you."_

 _Jared lets out a tiny laugh, flushing to the tips of his ears, but he's smiling when he says, "I do. I love you, Jensen."_

>

 _Jensen makes a soft 'hmm' sound and shifts, pretending to be asleep. Jared presses a last soft kiss to his mouth and then stretches out beside him, falling quickly into dreams._

 _The night sprints ahead, shadows crawling rapidly across the floor, and then Jensen's getting dressed, gaze lingering on Jared's peaceful form, and walking out the door._

*

"He put his heart on the line, laid himself bare for you," Genevieve says, still that horribly soft voice. Almost pitying. "He didn't have any more idea than you did of what would happen today, whether either of you would move on or go back, but he took a chance. He took a chance for you, and you just walked away."

Jensen can feel his eyes burning, hot with the shameful sting of tears, but he refuses to wipe them away. He stares past her into the middle distance and just lets them fall.

The question, when it comes, is hardly more than a whisper: "Do you love him?"

It takes him two tries to make his voice come out. "Yes."

"Then why didn't you tell him?"

"Because I was afraid."

*  *  *

Judges Kripke and Manners both rule him unready to move on and remand him back to Earth for another life. Misha doesn't argue; he shakes both judges' hands, nodding a farewell to Genevieve, and then they're alone. Jensen waits as for him as he gathers up his notes and lets Misha steer him out the door.

"I'll ride with you to the station," he tells Jensen. "It's on my way."

"Sure," Jensen says, distracted.

He catches Jensen eyeing the door to Jared's viewing room and shakes his head. "Don't, Jensen. He isn't in there. He's probably already on the plane."

"Sure," Jensen repeats.

He doesn't speak again until they're in the car and Misha's driver is easing them into traffic. The streets are busier than Jensen's ever seen them, full of cabs and buses ferrying the dead to their various destinations. Traffic slows to a crawl; Jensen rests his forehead against the window and watches the city as it inches by, feeling strangely hollowed-out and thinking of nothing at all.

They pass right by the airfield. Jensen stares at the gleaming row of planes for a solid 10 seconds before he even registers what he's seeing, and his hand tightens on the door handle until it hurts.

"Is that them? The ones who are going to move on?" he asks, nodding toward the neat lines of people dotting the airfield. They're only about a football field away, partially blocked from view by a tall control tower that lies closer to the road, but dozens of guards stand between Jensen and the planes. Up to this point Jensen hasn't seen any security in the city, and no real need for any, either, but he guesses this is one place where it might come in handy. Just in case anyone decides to do anything stupid.

Most of the guards are on the tarmac, ringing the groups of travelers waiting to board the planes. Jensen can only see a few near the simple control tower, and their stance is more casual, at ease, like they don't expect anyone to make any trouble there. Jensen thinks back over his four days in Terminal City and tries to remember if he's ever encountered a locked door here. He comes up empty; even that time he got lost in the hotel and managed to wander into the staff's private rooms, everything had stood open and unlocked.

He starts to formulate a really stupid plan.

"Hey, Misha," he says, calm and conversational. His fingers are white around the door handle. "Do me a favor. The next time you go up against Genevieve, I don't care who you're defending—beat the pants off her, will you?"

Misha blinks, tips his head at Jensen in that curiously bird-like way and then nods. "I'll try my—"

He breaks off as Jensen yells, "Look out!" and points out the windshield. The driver slams on the brakes, alarmed, and Jensen doesn't hesitate a second before he's out the door and taking off for the tower.

"Jensen? Jensen! What the fuck are you doing?" Misha shouts after him.

Jensen grins at the curse, dodges a car, and yells back over his shoulder: "Taking a chance!"

*  *  *

There are guards at his back, dozens of them screaming at him to stop, to get down, blind panic in their voices. He wonders distantly if this is the first time anyone's ever tried something like this before, because they don't seem to have the first clue what to do. Then he shuts the thought off and totally ignores them.

"Jared!" he shouts, the P.A. system amplifying his voice, sending it rippling out across the airfield like a solar wind. At least half of the people making their way to the planes stop, turning curiously to look up at where he clings to the tower. Jared could be any of them.

"Jared!" he calls out again. "Jared—aw, fuck, I don't even know your last name. Jared from Texas! Jared who loves dogs! Jared, god, please be out there. Please don't be gone yet. I don't know what to do if you're gone. Jared!"

As fervent as his plea is, as much of his heart and soul he throws into the reckless hope that Jared can hear him and still wants him and hasn't given up on him yet, he's totally unprepared for the tiny shout of "Jensen!" that echoes far below.

Jensen sags so hard with relief that he almost falls. There's a wave of distanced screams below, and the guards surge forward a step before Jensen waves them back.

"No!" Jensen yells, tightening his free arm around the support. "No, just—just get back! Not yet, okay. Just let me do this. You gotta let me do this…"

Some distant part of him understands he's becoming delusional, strung out on stress and exhaustion and feeling too _goddamn much._ He's coming apart at the seams, all the dissonant pieces of him shifting uneasily, grinding against each other and dragging up heat. But Jared's down there. He can see him now, a slightly taller silhouette among the others, face tilted up to Jensen, backlit and unreadable. Jared's down there, Jared can hear him. All he has to do is let the words come out.

"Jared," he calls out. "Jared, if you can hear me, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I was wrong. I'm not done. I'm not, I can't be. I can't go back and forget you, I _won't_."

The guards are edging closer. Jensen straightens his arm, leaning out a little, and it stops them, but it won't for long. They won't stay at the edges forever; soon, now, they're going to make their move.

He's running out of time.

"I love you," he says. It feels like the whole city's holding its breath, so quiet he can hear the soft tremor chase through the words. "I've known you four days and, and I fucking love you. I wish to god I'd met you when I was alive, but I didn't. I met you now, and it isn't fair, but I wouldn't give up the last four days for anything. And if you love me like you said you did, then you won't go. You won't leave me here. Because I don't want to go anywhere if you're not there."

"No one has to go anywhere," one of the guards says, easing closer. His hand is trembling, almost close enough to touch Jensen's ankle. "Let's just talk about this."

In spite of himself, Jensen grins.

"You know, I have this theory," he says. "About the afterlife. I don't think we can die here. I mean, really, how could we? Kind of redundant, you know?"

He glances back over the edge of the tower. Jared's pushed his way further through the crowd. He's close enough now that Jensen can just make out the details of his face.

"Let's test a theory," Jensen murmurs. And then he jumps.

*  *  *

There's a moment—one perfect, shining moment—where everything slows, hangs, and stops.

Jensen can see the guards behind him, mouths open in shock, hands reaching for him, knowing they're too late. He can see the crowd flinch back, arms flung up instinctively to shield them, blinding themselves to his fall. And there near the front of the crowd, alone among the cringing masses, he can see Jared; shoulders back, face lifted, pure love and grief etched into his face.

The moment stretches, tight as a steel spring drawn to its limits. Jensen's head pulses. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if he's broken the system. He feels suspended without end, timeless, a frozen glitch in the coding of the universe.

When The Voice speaks, it still sounds exactly like a fuzzy airport P.A. directing passengers to baggage.

 _That will do, Mr. Ackles_. _I believe you've made your point._

*  *  *

Jensen wakes up to the soft tarmac beneath his feet and Jared's hands in a death grip on his shoulders, the only two things in the universe holding him together.

"You _idiot_ ," Jared's saying. "You goddamn idiot, what the _fuck_ were you thinking. You're fucking crazy. Don't you ever pull that shit again. Kill you myself if it was even possible, kill you with my own two hands if I didn't love you so fucking much—"

 "Told you," Jensen jokes weakly, still thrumming with adrenaline. "Told you it would be okay. I'm not scared. Jay, I'm not scared anymore."

"Hell of a way to show it, too," Jared croaks, thumbing the corner of Jensen's eye with a deceptively gentle touch.

"Say it again," Jensen breathes out on a rush.

"Love you," Jared replies, without thought or hesitation, whispering it into the curve of Jensen's lips. "Love you, Jensen, love you."

"Love you too," Jensen sighs. "Stay here. Stay here with me, Jared."

And Jared promises, "Yeah. Right here."

 _The end._


End file.
